


Snowball

by YamiTami



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Gen, and my brain comes up with this setup???, ends with an ass being oogled, this was written to cheer someone up?, ultra depressing in beginning, vaguelly newgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:03:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamiTami/pseuds/YamiTami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hogan’s schemes were less a carefully mapped out plan and more a snowball rolling down a hill. Sometimes it got caught on things and slowed down and then he had to sprint to keep up with it and give it a push to keep it rolling and building until it crashed into the intended target. Always had to keep that momentum going because if it ever stopped completely he’d never be able to get it going again and everything would fall apart.</p><p>2013 Papa Bear Awards Bronze winner for Best Slash Story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowball

Hogan’s schemes were less a carefully mapped out plan and more a snowball rolling down a hill. Sometimes it got caught on things and slowed down and then he had to sprint to keep up with it and give it a push to keep it rolling and building until it crashed into the intended target. Always had to keep that momentum going because if it ever stopped completely he’d never be able to get it going again and everything would fall apart.

The whole war. Ever since they came up with the mad scheme to outfit escaped POWs in a POW camp, ever since one opportunity and then another came up for espionage and sabotage, the snowball kept getting bigger and bigger and it was all Hogan could do some days to keep it rolling. He didn’t have any time to take in the scenery beyond the next obstacle coming up because if he took his eyes off the goal for a second then the snowball would crash into a tree and it would all come crumbling down.

He tried, anyway. But this bank of rocks was just too big.

Hogan didn’t see a lot of death firsthand. Even before he became a saboteur his job was to sit in a metal can several thousand feet in the air and to rain down whistling death. He wasn’t so disconnected as to ignore the consequences of the amount of explosives they put out, but they were never close enough to see the actual bodies. And even when they’d seen the face of the person they were about to kill, it was always an enemy of the Allies, someone who needed to be taken out for the good of the war and the good of the world. It was easier to ignore those faces when he went to sleep.

This face was different.

Too young. They were all too young to be in this war, even the grayed out generals were too young. But this kid... did he volunteer? Did he think the danger would be worth it if he could be part of Hitler’s assassination? Did he die thinking that he had delivered the briefcase that would win the war?

But it didn’t. They got the bomb to the deliveryman, it was set just as it was supposed to, and it didn’t work. That madman was still running around with a pulse and a young kid was dead.

The snowball teetered on the edge of a cliff, not quite stopped but not moving any further without help, and Hogan didn’t know if he had it in him to give it the push it needed.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there in his office with his face buried in his hands. When Klink told him there had been an _un_ successful attempt on Hitler’s life it was all Hogan could do to maintain the mask until he was behind closed doors. He took shaky breath after shaky breath and tried to hear anything other than the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

It was too loud, or he was too distracted, so Hogan didn’t hear the door to his quarters open or close. He didn’t know anyone was in the room with him until a hand touched his shoulder. Hogan’s immediate reaction was to fight—intruder, enemy, danger—but when he whipped his head up he caught a flash of vibrant blue and the instinct drained. He looked up at Newkirk and tried to be flippant, talk about a headache he was suffering, _anything_ , but no words came. For once he couldn’t keep the act rolling. Hogan buried his face in his hands again.

He expected some kind of joke in poor taste from Newkirk. That was the Englishman’s usual response to times of high stress. But there was only silence, and the solid weight and warmth of a hand on his shoulder, and Hogan was both surprised and completely and utterly unsurprised when Newkirk sank down to his knees and wrapped his arms around his commanding officer in an almost not entirely awkward hug.

Just around the time Hogan was getting hold of himself enough to consider if he should stay frozen like a moron or hug the—corporal, subordinate, complicated and potentially disastrous situation—man back, Newkirk suddenly pulled away and stood with a lot of needless adjusting of his uniform. 

“Right then, sir!” Newkirk’s voice was all forced sunshine. “Got a few men from Stalag 7 scheduled for tonight. The usual distraction or are we going to mix it up for these Krauts as they haven’t seen anything fresh in their whole bloody lives, sad really.”

Abruptly, Newkirk closed his mouth with a click and looked painfully uncomfortable and uncertain. Hogan couldn’t help but smile even though the world still felt numb. He reached up and took hold of Newkirk’s wrist—safer than the hand, who is he kidding—and managed a quiet thank you.

Newkirk nodded and then paradoxically managed to both shuffle and bolt from the room. And if Hogan watched the corporal go, that was only natural. And if he didn’t bother looking above what was eye level to a man sitting slouched in a rickety desk chair... well, that was his business.

And just like that, the snowball was rolling again.


End file.
